


a careful heart is better than none

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Real Madrid CF, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6770458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergio wakes with his forehead squashed against his forearm, eyes blinking open to the tapestry of colours and patterns winking up at him from his skin, and in the medley of shapes and symbols, he doesn’t notice the looping addition of a name neatly etched on the joint of his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a careful heart is better than none

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tagide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tagide/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Любовь стоит того, чтобы ждать](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12481584) by [fytbolistka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fytbolistka/pseuds/fytbolistka)



> aka the soul mate fic where it takes them ages to work it out. Happy Spring Fling! :D
> 
>  
> 
> I told myself I wasn't going to use The National for any more fic titles...that lasted all of five minutes.

 

 

Iker notices immediately. He wakes up and stretches, and there it is: a little twirl of black ink on the inside of his right wrist.

 

 

 

Sergio doesn’t notice. He wakes with his forehead squashed against his forearm, eyes blinking open to the tapestry of colours and patterns winking up at him from his skin, and in the medley of shapes and symbols he doesn’t notice the looping addition of a name neatly etched on the joint of his hand. It’s mostly obscured by a sort of zig-zag running around Sergio’s wrist, the new addition imprinted directly on his skin and consequently underneath the older ink, visible only under close scrutiny.

 

 

 

When Iker sees it he blinks slowly, as though to clear the sleep from his eyes even though he doesn’t need to. The second he’d seen the name there on his wrist he’d been awake almost quicker than his mind could interpret the letters.

He stares at it for a little while longer. There’s a laugh making its way up his throat and he soaks it in, reading and re-reading the name.

 

 

 

Sergio gets up, takes a shower, gets dressed, and drives to training. He sings along with the radio in the car and changes which pair of sunglasses he wants to wear twice, rummaging through the glove box at red lights.

When he gets to training he’s in a good mood –he usually is- and distributes smiles to everyone he runs into.

 

 

 

They’re working on set pieces. Sergio drifts in to wrap a long-fingered hand around Iker’s upper arm and grins at him, open and careless. Iker can only smile back and wonder why he’d even been surprised for a moment that morning. Of course it’s Sergio. It has to be Sergio. Even at his worst, driving Iker crazy and throwing himself with reckless abandon into things that he shouldn’t –tackles, night clubs, arguments- Sergio is still _present,_ and Iker can’t imagine looking over the pitch and not seeing Sergio’s name and number in front of him, standing steady and sure.

 

 

 

He manages to get Sergio on his own after training, hanging back as they’re leaving the pitch and knowing that Sergio will wait for him. It does strike Iker as slightly strange that Sergio hadn’t already brought it up. Sergio had often said he liked the idea of soul mates. He thought was romantic or something.

As predicted, Sergio begins walking away with the gaggle of their team mates but stops once he notices Iker dragging his feet and head back. “What’s up?”

Iker suddenly doesn’t know how to start. He’d expected Sergio to jump into the inevitable conversation about what had happened, and hadn’t really planned out how to broach the subject.

He clears his throat. “So.”

Sergio blinks at him, eyes bright but unresponsive. Waiting for Iker to continue.

“What are we going to- what do you _want_ to do?”

“What are you talking about? What’s there to do?” Sergio’s expression is blank.

Iker is still wearing his gloves, preventing him from taking the easy path and just waving his tattoo at Sergio. But he gestures a bit helplessly with his hands all the same. “About the. Soul mate thing.”

Sergio laughs. “Iker, we can’t really _do_ anything about that. It’s one of those weird cosmic things that just happens whether you like it or not. You can’t control it, Capi.” He shrugs. “You just gotta roll with it.”

Iker’s heart drops. There’s a rushing sensation in his ears and throat as if he’s just let a ball slip into the back of his net.

_Oh._

Sergio doesn’t want him as a soul mate.

Why else not acknowledge it? Why else pretend as though nothing had changed? _It just happens whether you like it or not. Like it or not._

Vaguely, Iker can feel himself dragging a sickly smile across his face. “Never mind then.” He doesn’t know how he’s speaking instead of physically flying to pieces but he does know that he respects Sergio’s wishes. This is a choice of two people, and if Sergio doesn’t want him...then Iker can do that. Really, he can.

Sergio’s brow furrows. “Are you okay, Iker?” he sounds concerned and Iker wonders near-hysterically how Sergio can seem so unbothered, rubbing salt in the wound by pretending he’s worried.

“I’m fine.” Iker chokes out. “See you tomorrow.”

He practically flees.

 

 

Iker buys an overly large watch which he takes to wearing. At least the tattoo is small and easily covered: he doesn’t want questions, especially not from team mates who would more likely be sympathetic than anything else.

He could always get the tattoo removed or inked over. It would actually be the sensible thing to do: there’s no real point to it anymore, since Sergio doesn’t want him and Iker certainly doesn’t want to force the point. But it feels wrong all the same.

It’s fitting, Iker thinks, that when he’s on the pitch he doesn’t have to change anything about himself at all. His gloves already cover the tattoo. He can still play football as if nothing was different at all.

In some ways, things do stay the same. For the first few weeks Iker had managed to distance himself from Sergio, expecting that he would do the same and not wanting to face the nearly unimaginable situation in which Sergio pushed him away. But Sergio had seemed content to go on as always, even if he never mentioned the soul mate thing.

If Iker were of a more bitter mindset it might have been salt in his wounds that Sergio can continue their friendship completely unchanged and unaffected by what’s been burning against Iker’s wrist ever since he’d woken up and discovered it. But he’s grateful, really, that Sergio has apparently chosen to let him down easy in this way. He’d rather have Sergio as he always has and nothing more, than lose him altogether.

 

 

 

When Iker starts acting strangely, Sergio wonders if he had pushed a little bit too far. He can’t really deny to himself that he’d been more, well, enthusiastic with Iker lately, especially since the Euros that summer. But Sergio wasn’t sure how else to tell Iker, to show Iker, how much he meant to him. Maybe Iker just didn’t feel the same.

He had come fairly close once or twice to, to _something_ during the tournament. And afterwards, holding that trophy in a giddy rush with Iker in the whirlwind of red and yellow confetti and flashing lights. Confessing, or whatever.

He doesn’t want to scare Iker off. Sergio can be patient when things are important to him.

 

 

 

Iker looks at Sergio, sometimes, when Sergio is distracted enough not to notice. Iker looks at Sergio and _wishes._

Sergio might be distracted but others aren’t.

“You’ve got it _bad,_ ” Cris says to Iker, his eyes practically glittering. “Real bad.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Iker says, blankly.

Cris taps the side of his nose. “Sure. But I’m just saying. You oughta do something.”

After the match that day, when Sergio comes up to congratulate Iker on his clean sheet and wrap him in a hug, Iker clings just a bit tighter than usual, digs his fingers into Sergio’s sides just a bit harder.

If Sergio notices, he doesn’t say anything.

 

 

 

Part of Iker wishes that Sergio wasn’t so careless with his affection. Sergio’s easy touches and closeness stings a little in comparison to the deep, horrible depth of how much Iker _wants_ , but another, substantial part of him is glad that whatever he might think about them being soul mates, Sergio isn’t uncomfortable showering Iker with just as much tactile affection as he had done before the tattoos had appeared.

 

 

 

Part of Sergio is doubtful that his mission to be in constant contact with Iker is going to help much with the crush he’s been harbouring, and may in fact only be making things worse for himself. But then again, Sergio isn’t above being selfish. And as long as Iker is willing to put up with Sergio touching him at every opportunity, Sergio isn’t going to pass up the chance.

 

 

 

It wouldn’t be _so_ terrible if it had seemed to Iker that there had been some giant cosmic error. But it really doesn’t. Even as the season continues and the bench becomes more and more miserable through snub and injury, Sergio somehow always knows what to do to make sure that Iker doesn’t completely spiral into the dark mood that has been steadily creeping up on him.

It’s one such evening that Sergio takes Iker home and makes him dinner, and they wind up on the sofa, in front of the television but drunk enough on wine that neither of them are paying attention to whatever’s on the screen.

Sergio has arranged himself so that he’s practically on top of Iker, eyes closed and already slipping quickly into a doze. It’s just so much of exactly what Iker needs: an evening spent talking about nothing and just enjoying being in the presence of someone whom he trusts so completely, and that Sergio had known it was what he’d needed and provided it so aptly spins Iker’s head. It’s these moments when his guard is down that he lets himself wonder despairingly just why Sergio hadn’t wanted him.

“Why are you so good to me, Sese?” He almost doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

Sergio just smiles without opening his eyes. “Because I think you’re the best. The best in the world.”

Iker’s glad Sergio’s eyes are closed because he’s pretty sure his expression is hiding nothing, and not even trying to. He runs a hand through Sergio’s hair, letting his fingers tangle in the longer strands at the back of his neck. Sergio hums, pleased at the attention, and Iker’s heart _hurts._ He wants to stay here forever in the hazy, soft place curled on the couch with Sergio warm and heavy against him, and Iker wants so desperately to kiss him right then. Not just press his lips against the top of Sergio’s head but to _kiss_ him, mouths and tongues and all the love that’s welling up painfully in his chest like there’s something stuck in his throat, catching at his breath.

Iker should be happy that he has this, at least. He should be happy that while Sergio might not want to be his soul mate, he still wants Iker to be his friend. Iker takes what he can get and it should be enough.

It isn’t, though. It really isn’t.

He reaches over and takes Sergio’s hand, curling his fingers against Sergio’s palm and then down around his wrist where he knows his name is written in dark, lying ink. Iker rubs at the skin and wishes he could wash it away. He wishes he had never woken up with Sergio indelibly his soul mate. He wishes he could have had the chance to tell Sergio that they were meant to be together on his own time. Maybe it would have been better. Maybe Sergio had rejected the universe dumping him with Iker but would have accepted Iker by himself, without the intervention of whatever miserable forces that determined these things.

Sergio tugs his wrist away and for a moment Iker feels the usual disappointment but then Sergio is meshing their fingers together, lifting them to bump his nose against the back of Iker’s hand and murmur sleepily, “Stop fidgeting.”

“Isn’t that my line?” Iker asks, hopelessly indulgent. But he relaxes, sinking into the cushion of the couch and into the wine and the company, Sergio’s hand warm in his.

 

 

 

Iker tries to memorise the way Sergio feels, pressed neatly against him. He memorises the way Sergio feels and he tries to be content.

 

 

 

Sergio thinks that he could probably melt into Iker and stay there forever. He rests his head against Iker’s chest, listens to his heartbeat and thinks, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

 

 

After Dortmund, no one says anything. Sergio feels hazy, like he can’t quite believe that they had lost, even after the disaster of the first leg.

He can still feel the comforting pressure of Iker’s arms around him, and even though the angry, miserable tears have mostly dried up he just wants to get back to the dressing room and find Iker again. He wants, he _needs,_ Iker right now. He needs Iker to tell him that they’ll have it next season, and he needs Iker’s hands gentle in his hair and the solid anchor of his body close by.

Sergio makes his way to the dressing room, mercifully away from the bright accusing lights of the pitch and the unfamiliar roar of the victorious Dortmund supporters. But when he gets there everything he needs crumbles, because Iker is sitting on the dressing room bench looking just as lost as Sergio had felt when he had stumbled into Iker’s arms on the field after the final whistle.

Lost isn’t a good look on Iker, and something lurches in the pit of Sergio’s stomach.

Iker looks up when Sergio approaches him, and tries to school his expression into something approaching steady. He doesn’t quite make it.

“Iker,” Sergio begins, and then figures that he shouldn’t bother with words and opts for the best way he knows how to communicate, sitting down carefully next to where Iker is slumped on the bench and taking his hands gently in his own.

Iker hasn’t bothered to remove the athletic tape wound around his wrists. Sergio scrapes up the corner of it with his nail. “Here,” he says quietly, “let me get this.”

He begins to carefully undo the tape, fingers careful against Iker’s too-hot skin. Sergio can feel Iker’s pulse in his wrist and he suddenly seems very fragile. He doesn’t know what to do with his captain like this; quiet and retreated into himself. He wishes Iker would shout, bark criticism of the first leg and the inadequacy of the second. Demand improvement and inspiration. But Iker just sits there and lets Sergio unwind him in silence.

Sergio needs to know what he can do here. He needs to know what Iker wants. He wishes it were so easy as pressing kisses along the fallen ridge of Iker’s spine, over the dark hollows under his eyes. Along the down-turned curve of his lips. When Iker had gathered him up in his arms on the pitch, Sergio had felt himself start coming together again, even with his heart beating frantically in his chest and his vision blurry with tears. Iker had only needed to murmur a few words and Sergio had found himself again, and he needs to return the favour now. He needs to be what Iker needs, in the same way that Iker is exactly what Sergio needs.

He gently frees the last strip of tape from Iker’s right hand, and as it falls away he sees something on the inside of Iker’s wrist: a dark tattoo of sloping script. Sergio sees it and his brain identifies what it is before he can really _understand,_ and then Iker is snatching his hand back, a dark flush rising on his cheeks. His eyes are worried but defiant at the same time, as if daring Sergio to say or do something. Sergio looks to Iker’s hand but he’s covering his wrist, the tattoo hidden again.

It’s as though someone has upended a bucket of icy water over Sergio’s head and shoulders, a coldness dropping over him and crawling down his back. Iker has a soul mate tattoo. Iker has a soul mate tattoo that he isn’t showing to Sergio.

At first it’s hurt that he feels. Hurt that Iker wouldn’t trust him with this. Soul mates might be personal but they weren’t necessarily secrets, and anyway Sergio is Iker’s friend. Sergio is Iker’s _best_ friend. And Iker is hiding this from him.

But almost immediately it’s worse than that. The cold shock washing over him is more than just hurt that Iker wouldn’t tell Sergio that he’d gotten a soul mate. It’s jealousy. And worse, _disappointment._

Iker has a soul mate, and it’s not Sergio.

Iker coughs quietly. “Thanks for helping.” He stands, slowly but steadily. “I-” he starts to say something but stops, hands twisting together. Sergio catches another glimpse of the black ink on the inside of Iker’s wrist before it’s gone again. “You scored a beautiful goal,” Iker says softly. His eyes are saying something that Sergio doesn’t understand, just for a moment, and then Iker is gone, walking quickly away with his hands in his pockets.

Sergio stays where he is, still reeling. Iker has a soul mate and it isn’t him. All the times that he’s chatted aimlessly to Iker about the idea that he’d always found a little bit ridiculously romantic, he’s never mentioned the great what if: _hey Iker, what if you were my soul mate?_

Sure, he’s thought about it. But he’s never said it.

And he’s never considered Iker having a soul mate that _wasn’t_ him.

Which is strange and perhaps a little bit selfish, Sergio thinks now, sitting on the dressing room bench with his world spinning around him. Iker has other friends, other people he loved. But for some reason-

Who _was_ Iker’s soul mate, come to that. Sergio feels the dizzying, sickening cold rush again. Who was Iker’s soul mate. Someone he knew? Or some stranger who had managed to shove their way into Iker’s heart without Sergio’s knowledge. Someone who, for whatever reason, the universe had deemed better for Iker.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Why wouldn’t Iker have told him? And why, _why-_

But what could he have done? What could he have done to somehow make himself more suited to Iker? Was there a magic formula of touch and distance that he could have hit in order to perfectly fit against Iker’s side and earn that string of black ink letters wrapping their way around Iker’s wrist, the same place Sergio would sometimes gently circle his fingers after losses, providing himself in case Iker ever wanted him?

But Iker has never taken him. If Iker asked, Sergio would give him anything. And he’s fairly certain that Iker knows it. He has always assumed that one day Iker _would_ ask, and that he hadn’t yet simply because he was Iker: a little bit withdrawn and a little bit more long-suffering.

He hadn’t ever thought that Iker wasn’t asking because he already had someone else.

 

 

 

The next season winds its way through Sergio heart in ups and downs. For one thing, Iker’s spirits are lifted significantly when he’s back where he’s meant to be in the goal and knowing that Iker is behind him, roaring encouragement and righteous fury, is always heartening. But at the same time he knows that Iker has a soul mate and that unsettles him. A constant in Sergio’s life for the longest time now has been the knowledge that he loves Iker, and he doesn’t think that anyone can ever top that, whatever bullshit the universe has decided.

 

 

 

When Sergio scores in the Champions League final, when Sergio saves him, Iker screams his pride from the other end of the pitch as Sergio vanishes beneath a pile of howling team mates, the stadium crashing with sound and light. The moment is constructed of it, the roar of the crowds and the piercing digital numbers on the clock stayed off for a second chance.

 

 

 

Later in the locker room, after the decibel level has settled to bearable, Iker finds Sergio. He emerges from underneath his towel with a smile like the sun, for just a moment Iker lets himself go. He leans in to kiss Sergio, tasting the champagne on his lips and lets himself go on the high of the long-coveted victory and the touch of his hand against the back of Sergio’s neck. There is a medal around his neck and Sergio is kissing him and Iker can forget about the rejected tattoo on his wrist, underneath the layers of tape. He can forget because tonight, this is enough. This is enough.

 

 

 

Sergio knows that it’s Iker’s touch on the back of his head even before he pulled the towel down around his neck to meet his gaze. Iker leans in for a kiss and Sergio eagerly obliges, expecting a peck on the cheek but being surprised and delighted when Iker presses their lips together. Iker is saying something about the victory and his goal and Sergio is _basking,_ revelling in the affection and in _Iker_ , and he can forget about the fact that Iker has someone bound to him already. He can forget because tonight, this is enough. This is enough.

 

 

 

In typical fashion, Sergio bruises his shoulder on only the second day of pre-season training while trying to do an elaborate bicycle kick during corner practice, and Iker offers to drive him home, having had a horrible vision of Sergio behind the wheel one-handed and running into a telephone pole, and then half-way to Sergio’s house and they decide he might as well just go over to Iker’s for dinner. Iker likes that it’s so easy with Sergio. That he barely has to say anything before Sergio is agreeing amicably, knowing what Iker is going to ask before the words have even left his mouth.

 

 

 

“Just put everything in the dishwasher,” Sergio complains after they’ve eaten and Iker heads towards the sink. “Aren’t you rich or something?”

“You don’t have to be rich to have a dishwasher, what are you saying? And I like doing the dishes.” Iker shrugs. “It’s relaxing.”

Sergio rolls his eyes but pushes up his sleeves and grabs a towel to dry. “Why am I not surprised.”

Iker gives Sergio a reproachful nudge and Sergio stiffens, just for a split-second, but Iker notices. He narrows his eyes. “Your shoulder. Did I hurt you?”

Sergio shakes his head too quickly. “I’m fine.”

Iker clicks his tongue, mostly irritated at himself for forgetting.

“It’s _fine_ , Iker.”

They glare at each other for a moment before Iker capitulates. He smiles wanly. “When did you get old, Sese? You weren’t supposed to do that.”

“Just doing my best to catch up to you, old man.”

Iker laughs. “Fair enough.” He takes off his watch, setting it carefully on the counter, and starts doing the washing up.

 

 

 

They work in comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the water and Sergio humming aimlessly under his breath.

Iker takes the towel from Sergio when he’s done to dry his hands, and Sergio notes with amusement the stark tan line around Iker’s wrist where he always wears his watch. Iker never takes the thing off and the skin underneath is even paler than the rest of him. Sergio is about to crack a joke about it when Iker twists his arm while hanging the dish towel back on the rack, exposing the inside of his wrist and the name tattooed there.

_Sergio Ramos._

Sergio freezes, eyes locked in on Iker’s wrist.

“What’s up-” Iker’s eyes follow Sergio’s line of sight and he stills. “Oh. Right.”

“Iker,” Sergio says hoarsely. His heart is beating very quickly and his chest is very tight. There’s a laugh beginning to bubble up in the back of his throat.

“I- I know I should have gotten it inked over or removed by now,” Iker says, an edge of self-deprecation in his voice. “But I didn’t. Sorry. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“ _Don’t mean anything by it-_ Iker, I’m your _soul mate._ ” Sergio feels light-headed. “I’m your- we’re supposed to-” The giddiness that’s threatening to overtake him suddenly dies as quickly as it had arisen. “You didn’t tell me.” The implications of that hit him. “You never told me. Do you...not want me?”

Iker’s expression had been one of apprehension, but now it shatters with shocked hurt. He looks betrayed. “ _I_ never told _you?_ ” His words take on a tone of anger. “Sergio, why are you doing this now? Why are you acting like this?”

“Acting like what?” Sergio demands. His insides are jumbling, trying to balance the brilliant horizon of possibilities that had opened up with the revelation of his name neatly inked on Iker’s wrist with the flat-lining dawning knowledge that Iker had hidden it from him. “Iker, what’s wrong with me? What did I do? Why don’t you want me?” To Sergio’s horror, he can feel a lump forming in his throat. “Please just- _tell me._ I can- I can fix it.”

He thinks back to that awful semi-final the previous season, unwrapping the tape from Iker’s wrist and how Iker had quickly hidden his tattoo out of sight once Sergio had seen it. He remembers how Iker’s face had looked then: guilty but stubborn. He remembers all the times he had chatted aimlessly with team mates about having soul mates and how Iker never offered an opinion or said a word. He remembers every touch they had ever shared, every time he had fallen asleep on Iker’s shoulder or kissed him or held his hand or a thousand other little ways that Sergio had tried to tell Iker _look, look I love you,_ and how Iker had welcomed him in but never, never said a word about the fact that all the time they had been together, they should have been _together._

Iker blinks at Sergio, the wounded look in his eyes fading to confusion. “What? Sergio, what are you talking about? You didn’t _do_ anything- that’s the point. I thought you were avoiding the issue and I tried to respect that!” He looks at Sergio pleadingly. “But Sergio, I’ve never said I didn’t want you.” It seems as though something has gone wrong, terribly ridiculously wrong, but there might be a glimmer of hope yet. “I _do_. God, Sergio, I _do._ If you want...if you wanted me...” he trails off, uncertain what to say.

“I don’t get it,” Sergio says, desperately chasing after the threads of whatever this was that was unravelling between them. Iker’s eyes were bright and far-away and Sergio doesn’t understand how he can just stand there and ask if Sergio wanted him when _he_ was the one who should have known-

It strikes him only just then that if Iker had his name tattooed on his wrist then that also meant-

And then Iker takes Sergio’s wrist in his hands, holding him carefully as though Sergio might balk from the contact. He turns Sergio’s wrist over and rubs a thumb over the black zig-zag tattoo. “Look.”

Sergio peers at his wrist, and for the first time sees what had appeared that unremarkable morning two years before.

_Iker Casillas._

There’s a strange rushing in his ears. From far away, he can hear Iker speaking. “I thought you were disappointed with it,” he’s saying. “I thought you didn’t want to be my soul mate.”

“How long...” Sergio can’t complete the question. Now that he’s seen Iker’s name on his wrist it’s the only thing he can focus on. It seems impossible that he hadn’t ever noticed it before. Even with the older tattoo crossing over it, Iker’s name is emblazoned there as clear as day.

“A long time.” Iker says, and there’s a slightly wry edge creeping back into his tone, which previously had been open and vulnerable. He’s beginning to sound a bit more like he does when Sergio has done something extraordinarily stupid and Iker is cleaning up the mess. Which, to be fair, is exactly what has happened. “After the last Euros.”

Sergio’s head snaps up. His eyes are wide. “The _Euros!?”_ He sounds aghast. “Iker, but that’s...that’s like two years ago!”

“Yes, I’ve done the math, thanks.” Iker is definitely pushing out of emotional devastation and back into his usual long-suffering exasperation. “But I tried bringing it up to you and when you didn’t know what I was talking about, I thought you felt differently. And I wasn’t about to go shove it onto you, whatever a tattoo might say.”

Sergio is still floored. “ _Two years._ ” Suddenly something strikes him. “Two years- Iker, I think I’ve been half in love with you since 2010, how the hell- how could you think for a _minute_ that I wouldn’t want to be your soul mate!?”

“Well, forgive me for not realising that you wouldn’t have noticed my _name tattooed on your own damn arm._ ” Iker says huffily, a glimmer of a smile tugging up the edges of his lips, his eyebrows drawn together in exasperation.

“Oh my god-”

But Iker is laughing and then he’s reaching for Sergio, pulling him in to rest in his arms the way he’s always fit so well. “I was always thinking and over-thinking,” he admits, brushing a kiss against Sergio’s cheek. “But I was worried. You were always giving everything to me, and to everyone, and I didn’t know how far it went.” He kisses the other cheek. “And when you never said anything...I thought that you just didn’t want me. You always love everyone so much.”

Sergio looks at Iker with smiling eyes and smiling lips. “But I love you more.” He leans in and gives him a light kiss. “I love you _more,_ Iker.”

“Okay,” Iker says softly. “Okay. Then can I- I want to start over. Without either of us being idiots about it. Sergio. I’m your soul mate, and I want to be your soul mate.” He lifts his wrist, baring the tattoo there. “And not just because of this. Because I love you, for a long time, and that means something.”

“Yes,” Sergio says, his voice all warm and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, soft and honest, “ _Yes.”_

“Good.” Iker says, gently taking Sergio’s face between his hands. “Good.”

And he kisses Sergio, really kisses him, as he had wanted to for so long. Kisses him without any reason but that he wanted to, and he could, and Sergio kisses him back, and for the first time in a while, neither of them are thinking about the tattoo on Iker’s wrist whatsoever.

 

 

 

Sergio thinks, that whatever bullshit the universe might try to pull at times, this time it had gotten it very right in the end.


End file.
